"To die for fascism is a feather death."
—The Quotations of Chairman Mao

"I'm humble duck shit," said Bu Yu. "But you've been everywhere and seen
everything. Advise me, Shifu."
The Shifu said nothing.
"The foreigner calls my brother Mosquito
Lunch, right in front of the others. And they all laugh. That's not dialectical
materialism. Am I wrong or right, Shifu?"
The Shifu looked as though he were about
to laugh also. The blackish bags under his eyes stiffened for a second.
"Right," he said. "Has your brother actually asked you to come save him?"
"Of course not. This is intended to be
a farewell letter. He thinks he's about to perform his last act, though
he doesn't say so outright. He has always been far too brave to ask help
from anybody. Surely you remember that."
"Surely." The Shifu was noncommittal. "Nevertheless
you're determined to go?"
"Determined."
The old man held up both hands as though
trying to select from among hundreds of grandfatherly admonitions that
flooded his head. "Do you remember the wu-shu moves the army man taught
you last harvest?"
"Remember them? I never learned them properly
in the first place."
"Doesn't matter," he said without a pause,
as though he'd anticipated Bu Yu's response. "Wu-shu is useless against
such a devil. Two meters? More than two meters?"
"That's what Younger Brother says in the
letter."
"And more than 300 jin?"
The dread in Bu Yu's eyes confirmed it.
The weight of three normal men.
The Shifu tuned his voice up to the pitch
of a professional propagandist on a Sunday morning shortwave broadcast.
"Why do they let such monsters in to make life hell for us?" he cried.
"Modernization."
"Have you ever seen a foreigner?"
"When would I have seen one? In a bad dream?"
Having received that answer, the Shifu
assumed an authoritative air. He said, "I had a female American journalist
in the caves up north just before we mobilized against the Japanese imperialist
forces." He searched Bu Yu's face for incredulousness, found none, or
very little, so continued. "Don't get too close. They smell worse than
hog shit."
He sat back against the wall with his good
leg crossed in a half-lotus, his other leg stuck out straight. He closed
one of his eyes, a semi-Buddha dismissing Bu Yu.
Was that the parting advice the Shifu had
to lend? Was that the sum of his wisdom? Hog shit? Bu Yu tried to keep
his voice calm.
"Shifu. The smell of the foreigner is my
smallest worry. I can stop my nose with lard. But can't you hold out some
hope for me?"
The Shifu opened his eye and seemed to
search his skull for some stale feudal maxim. "Um, heaven will not hinder
the traveler."
"Shit on that."
"All right, then. Shit on the classics."
He leaned forward.
"Here's something the peasants right here
say: don't leave your little thatched cottage. You understand? A placid
death in bed is more hope than many have."
Bu Yu tried not to sneer and failed. "But
then," the Shifu added, "maybe one should reject the wisdom of the country
people. After all, it takes the sweat of a dozen peasant families to support
one wise college boy like your brother." The Shifu exhaled pungent smoke
and whispered, "Do you boys intend to—"
For one of the first times since they'd
met, the old man's silver voice failed to finish a sentence. But it was
unnecessary for him to say more.
"If we must," said Bu Yu.
"Then prepare
the back of your neck for an army man's bullet." The Shifu stood up in
anger. "If you don't die immediately," he seethed, "they dig out your
heart and lungs with a conical bayonet. Sometimes the older bayonets break
off between your ribs. Best of luck to you. Luck, not hope. I hold out
no hope for you."
The Shifu limped over and spoke directly
into Bu Yu's face. His breath smelled like fried peppers.
"Perhaps you should recruit four of our
peasant brothers to trudge along behind you carrying your coffin, pallbearers
before the fact, to symbolize your determination not to return alive without
having completed your mission, like the feudal hero What's-his-name."
"Shifu, I'll need recruit only one peasant."
"What's this? You're skinny, but not that—"
"You forget that cremation is the order
of the day in the city. One peasant will be enough to carry my urn."